Chapter 5 - The South Side Delivery
The retaliation from the Vail family arrived on Tuesday morning, not with bullets, but with forty-two tons of wet gravel dumped directly across the loading dock entrance of Bellafior at five in the morning.
When Mara arrived for her shift, Chef Lorenzo was standing in the alleyway, his apron flapping in the wind, shouting at a pair of city inspectors who were already writing a municipal citation for blocking a public right-of-way.
“It’s Vail’s drivers!” Lorenzo screamed, his face the color of a ripe plum. “They backed the trucks in at four-thirty, tipped the beds, and drove off without their plates! I have four hundred pounds of fresh lobster arriving from Logan Airport in two hours, and the delivery van can’t even get within three blocks of my coolers!”
Mr. Pell was hiding inside the back door, holding a cup of herbal tea and looking like he wanted to crawl into the grease trap. “We have to call the police, Mara. This is a city code violation.”
“The police won't touch a Vail truck, Mr. Pell,” Mara said, her mind working with the cold efficiency she had developed during the winter blizzards of 2019. She walked over to the gravel pile, reached down, and picked up a small, yellow delivery slip that had been left stuck to the brick wall with a piece of packing tape.
On it, written in a thick black marker, was a single sentence: The back table is full.
“Elias,” Mara called out into the kitchen.
The young server ran out, his face white. “Yes, Miss Mara?”
“Go down to the basement. Find the three iron shovels we used for the snow. Then go to the transit station on Grand Avenue. Tell the day-laborers that the Bellandi family is paying fifty dollars an hour cash for anyone who can move gravel into the dumpsters before eight o'clock.”
“Fifty dollars?” Mr. Pell gasped. “Mara, that’s not in the restaurant budget!”
“It’s in the building budget, Pell,” a voice said from the mouth of the alley.
Nico Bellandi walked into the gray morning light. He was wearing his long black overcoat, his boots crunching over the loose stone as he stepped toward Mara. Behind him came three black SUVs, their doors opening simultaneously to reveal twelve men in dark wool suits carrying heavy chrome flashlights and industrial work gloves.
Nico took the yellow delivery slip from Mara’s hand. He read the words, his face completely smooth, his eyes reflecting the cold, dirty gray of the Chicago sky.
“You’re quick, Mara,” he said, his voice low. “Most managers would have spent an hour calling the insurance company.”
“The lobster doesn't care about the insurance, Mr. Bellandi,” Mara said, her breath fogging in the cold air. “It only cares about the ice.”
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Nico turned to the lead man from the SUV—a tall, silent operator named Rocco who had a jagged scar through his left eyebrow. “Rocco. Take six of the boys. Help the laborers clear the dock. Then take the rest of the trucks down to the Vail concrete terminal on Sixty-Third Street. I want their main mixer gates welded shut by nine-thirty. If they like gravel so much, they can keep it in their own bellies.”
He looked back at Mara, his hand reaching out to brush a stray piece of gravel dust from her cheek. His thumb was warm, rough, and stayed against her skin for two seconds longer than necessary. “You look cold, Mara. Go inside. Make me a cup of espresso. The kind with the lemon on the side.”
